


Crash and Burn

by miss_begonia



Series: Future Events [3]
Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I always had a plan</i>, Adam said. <i>But the weird thing is? None of this was part of it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash and Burn

The funny thing is Kris had already been on his way. They’d planned this visit for months, coordinating schedules and checking calendars, moving around meetings and tour dates. It takes a lot of time to plan visits now, much longer than the visits actually last.   
  
Kris knows this is a good thing, mostly, but sometimes he misses his college days when making plans meant grabbing coffee after class, beers in the backyard and church on Sundays. None of this  _when is your photoshoot_ and  _can you talk to my agent_  and  _that’s the day of that awards show_  bullshit, filters and red tape and walls, walls, walls.  
  
He’s at the airport checking his baggage when he gets the call, sees Adam’s familiar number, flips open his cell and says, “Hey, man, I’m getting on the plane.”  
  
Quentin says, “Kris.”  
  
And Kris thinks:  _Oh, no._  
  
*  
  
Hospitals freak Kris out. Hospitals freak most people out, Kris knows, but he thinks he must have some kind of weird phobia because he can’t handle them, couldn’t even handle it when Katy had the baby.   
  
Cedars-Sinai is one of the best, but it still smells like  _wrong_ , like sterile, closed-in air and worry and fear. His shoes squeak on the linoleum and the sound startles him like a gunshot.   
  
 _Get over yourself_ , he thinks.  _Jesus._  
  
He’s nearing the door of Adam’s room when Quentin pokes his head out the door and says, “Wow, that was fast.”  
  
“I told you I was on a plane,” Kris says faintly, and Quentin gives him a sad smile. It sort of makes Kris want to punch him in the face, but only because Kris wants to punch something right now, hit something hard enough to physically feel what’s knotted up inside him.  
  
“He’s on a lot of painkillers,” Quentin says. “He’s conscious, though, and the doctors say he doesn’t seem to have any brain damage or anything.”  
  
The words make sense in context but the context doesn’t make sense. This is Adam. Adam is invulnerable. Adam is solid and larger-than-life and incredible. Car accidents don’t happen to Adam Lambert. Cars should fear Adam Lambert. Cars should get out of Adam’s way.  
  
“That’s good,” Kris says, and Quentin squeezes his shoulder. His dark eyes are tight at the corners, his thin smile a pale remnant, an afterthought.  
  
On tour after Adam did the cover of  _Rolling Stone_ , he’d jokingly insisted he could win any contest of manliness. _But my question is_ , Adam would say,  _have you ever had a snake near your crotch?_  Hilarity would ensue, and Danny would grumble,  _I still think you’re crazy, man_ , as if he’d ever thought anything but.  
  
Rules don’t apply around Adam. Kris would say,  _I don’t really drink_ , and Adam would say,  _You do tonight_. Kris would say,  _I can’t hit that note_ , and Adam would say,  _Try harder_. Kris would say,  _I don’t know if I want this life_ , and Adam would say,  _Then make it the life you want_. Everything was possible around Adam. Everything was an option or a choice, an open door.  
  
But now Adam lies in this hospital bed, a tumble of limbs and sheets and tubes. His pupils are dilated, blue eyes hazy from medication and exhaustion. His arm is in a cast, his leg bandaged beneath the sheets, and his cheek bears an angry-looking scratch. Kris knows this isn’t the first time Adam’s been beat up by something or someone, but it’s the first time Kris has ever been around to see it.  
  
“My own personal troubadour,” Adam says, reaching out one hand to Kris. Kris takes it, squeezes his palm, feels the cool, damp skin against his own.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Kris says, and Adam makes a face.   
  
“You’re sorry,” Adam grumbles. “I bought us theater tickets!”  
  
This surprises a laugh out of Kris. He hasn’t laughed for the last eight hours: six hours on a plane reminding himself to breathe, unable to eat or drink or do anything other than sit absolutely still, hands twisted together in his lap, eyes trained out the window at the sky and the too many miles in between.   
  
“I mean, fuck,” Adam says. “I have this gig this week, this little club thing? I was really looking forward to that. I hate cancelling.”  
  
“They could roll you on out there,” Kris says. “Your voice still works, right?”  
  
“Mmm,” Adam says, and his eyes dim. “Not sure. The real trouble would be fitting my arm into that leather thing I was going to wear with the cast on.”  
  
“Glad to see your priorities are in order,” Kris says.   
  
When Adam grins, Kris’ smile is a reflex.  
  
“Always, baby,” Adam says, and winks. “Always.”  
  
*  
  
The next day they let Adam go home. He’s still beat up pretty bad, but there’s nothing for them to do at the hospital other than let him rest, and he’s got more comfortable places to do that.  
  
“Don’t push it, buddy,” the nurse tells him, looking fierce. Adam just nods at her with wide eyes, then smirks at Kris when her back is turned.  
  
Adam’s car – the one he didn’t total – is sick. It’s a friggin’ Corvette, who would’ve thunk it, but Adam was completely certain it was what he wanted, never even considered anything else. Kris and Katy are at the minivan stage at this point; Kris has a Ferrari but he never gets to drive it anymore, and it just sits in their garage looking sad and shiny.  
  
Kris and Quentin help Adam into the car, and Quentin makes a fuss over getting him comfortable while Adam bats him away with his one good hand.  
  
“I am fine, I am fine, I am fine,” Adam says, and when Quentin tries to adjust his seatbelt he grabs his hand and kisses it, knight-in-shining-armor style.  
  
“You are not fine,” Quentin says.  
  
“I love you,” Adam says, and Quentin ducks his head and flushes, pulling his hand away.  
  
“I love you too, asshole,” Quentin says, and finally leaves him be.  
  
“I was at this party last week,” Adam says as Quentin makes their way through heavy traffic on the 101, “and somebody said, ‘Jessica Alba is here!’ And I thought,  _Bullshit, she is not_. But she was, and she came up to me and, like, told me she liked my album. I was tripping out, man.”  
  
“Jessica Alba is hot,” Kris says.  
  
“Crazy hot,” Adam says.   
  
Kris notices Adam’s breathing a little fast, his hand clenching into a fist against the leather of the car seat.   
  
“Are you all right, man?” Kris whispers, not wanting to alarm Quentin, who’s still jumpy as hell as he drives under the speed limit back to their house.   
  
“There are so many places I’d rather be right now than in a moving vehicle,” Adam whispers back, and Kris reaches across the seat and takes Adam’s hand.  
  
“Tell me about Annabelle,” Adam says, and Kris does.  
  
*  
  
Kris likes Adam being injured and confined to his house maybe more than he should. Normally when Kris visits, Adam drags him out to some club where he stands awkwardly in a corner watching Quentin and Adam dance provocatively to music with a thumping, insistent beat. But tonight they just slump on Adam’s living room couch and watch  _Labyrinth_  while Quentin flutters around, getting Adam everything he asks for (and many things he doesn’t) and constantly checking to see if either of them are hungry/thirsty/comfortable.  
  
“I am on so many drugs right now, honey,” Adam says. “I am very, very comfortable.”  
  
“You’re not going to feel good when you have to go off those,” Quentin warns him.  
  
“Then I will never go off them,” Adam says grandly, and sinks farther into the couch.   
  
He’s heavy-lidded and clearly riding the edge between awake and asleep. He places his hand on Kris’ arm and leaves it there, but Kris doesn’t mind. He likes having Adam hold on to him.  
  
Quentin rolls his eyes, clearly unamused. “I’m going to bed. Kris, can you make sure he doesn’t swallow his own tongue?”  
  
“I’ll try,” Kris says, smiling at Quentin in what he hopes is a trustworthy way. He’s had two glasses of wine and he’s more tipsy than he’d like to admit. Maybe Adam’s pain pills are affecting him by osmosis.  
  
Quentin climbs the stairs to their bedroom, and suddenly it’s very quiet, just the low, eerie sounds of the movie soundtrack and Adam’s breathing, heavy and deep through parted lips.  
  
“I would so do David Bowie,” Adam says. “Like, even now. Even though he’s old.”  
  
“Good to know,” Kris says.  
  
“It’s my one regret,” Adam says. “That I got married before I could do David Bowie.”  
  
“You are so high right now,” Kris says.  
  
“So high, Jesus Christ,” Adam breathes. “This room is actually purple, right?”  
  
“Yes,” Kris says. “Unfortunately.”  
  
“Whatever, bitch, I’ve got excellent taste,” Adam says. “I am classy. Classi _est_.”  
  
Kris snorts. Adam is practically lying on top of him now, his whole body gone liquid.  
  
“Purple is the color of royalty,” Adam says importantly. “And I am a queen.”  
  
Kris laughs a little harder than he should at that, but Adam looks pleased. His features are smooth and relaxed, and Kris thinks that Adam really is an attractive guy without all the crap he puts on his face. But maybe that’s not the kind of attractive Adam wants to be.  
  
“I remember this one time,” Adam says, “when we were on the show, and you were getting ready to sing…I think it was the movie song. The really pretty one.”  
  
“’Falling Slowly,’” Kris supplies.  
  
“Yeah, that one,” Adam says. “And you were sitting in our room with your guitar practicing it, and you sounded amazing, and you looked amazing, and I kept thinking that it wasn’t fair.”  
  
“Adam—“  
  
“Like that you could be all of those things,” Adam continues, undeterred. “Gorgeous and talented and creative and smart and so fucking kind, too. That there should be some kind of…limitation on the number of gifts one person can have.”  
  
Kris feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. It’s like they’ve been playing some game the same way forever, and Adam’s just changed all the rules.  
  
He runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “You know that’s not—“  
  
“No, fuck you, it is true,” Adam insists. He’s flushed, and his eyes are blurry. “It is.”  
  
Kris’ head is light. He can feel Adam’s hand on his arm, fingers still splayed across his skin. Adam is so close, his eyes sleepy soft, his freckles like a scatter plot, a map for the blind. Adam smells like vanilla, like cookies and grandmothers and other things that are safe.  
  
And then they are kissing.  
  
Kris doesn’t know who leaned in first. Adam’s mouth is barely touching his, a kiss like an echo, like refracted light.   
  
Kris can’t breathe. Adam pulls back first.  
  
“Oh, God,” Adam whispers.  
  
Kris doesn’t know what to say. He thinks maybe this was inevitable in the way that irrational things often are. Human beings do completely stupid things all the time because the moment grips them, digs its nails in and refuses to let go.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Adam says. “I am on so many drugs right now – I am so sorry—“  
  
“No,” Kris says, and swallows. He wants to say,  _don’t be sorry, I’m not sorry_. He wants to say,  _I wanted_ —   
  
But words feel clumsy right now, inadequate, the way Kris felt the first time he saw Adam perform, strutting around the stage, hitting the impossible notes. He thought:  _effortless_.  
  
“You should go to bed,” Kris says, and in fact Adam is already struggling to get up, a task easier said than done with a broken arm and a broken ankle on opposite sides, balance shot all to hell. Adam tucks his crutch under his arm and Kris reaches out, tries to steady him.  
  
“No, I can – I can do this,” Adam says, but he’s wincing as he says it.   
  
Kris thinks,  _He doesn’t want to touch me, he’s afraid to touch me_. Everything hurts.   
  
*  
  
A year ago Adam did a show at this drag club in New York for charity, a one-off favor for a friend. Kris was in town to do some studio work and he stopped by, thought he was going to just say hi and ended up staying. Before he’d even fully processed the situation it was two a.m. and people were screaming and yelling for encores and he’d had two more drinks than he should have and this impossibly tall drag queen with green cat eyes and jet black hair spliced with silver was stroking his face and saying,  _you are so adorable I want to eat you, honey_.   
  
This was how parties always went when he was around Adam, so predictable in their unpredictability. There was something Zen about that. Kris never felt strange or threatened, never worried, never freaked out. Adam had everything under control. He functioned best in chaos, and Kris was more than happy to let Adam take him by the hand.  
  
The feline drag queen touched his cheek, and Adam swooped down and tugged Kris out of his chair and marched him towards the exit, ignoring the cat calls and shrieks. He pulled him out onto the street where the air smelled like ash and piss and beer. He hailed a cab and maneuvered them both inside of it. All this happened in a matter of minutes, and suddenly they were alone in the quiet. Adam was wearing glitter on his eyelids and leather pants that laced up the sides and boots with platform heels, but he was staring at Kris with a strange, thoughtful expression, one Kris couldn’t quite parse or decipher.  
  
 _Watching you is always_ … Kris started to say, but he ran out of words, couldn’t find them anywhere.   
  
 _You didn’t have to come_ , Adam said quickly.  _I know this isn’t your thing. It’s not even my thing anymore, really._  
  
Kris’ chest felt tight.   
  
 _I wanted to come, man._  
  
Adam picked at the nail polish on his left thumb nail, staring out the window of the cab. It was cranked half-open, and chilly air breezed through.   
  
 _I don’t know_ , Adam said.  _I don’t know what I’m doing._  
  
Kris played with his wedding ring, twisting it around his finger until it bit into the skin.  
  
 _You don’t have to know what you’re doing_ , Kris said.  _Not all the time.  
  
But you always know, right?_ Adam said.  _Like – with Katy. Getting married, having a baby? All of that was part of the plan.  
  
I never had a plan_, Kris said.   
  
It’s true. Sure, it looked good on paper: the missionary work, the early marriage to his high school sweetheart, but Kris never told people he’d gone all over the world because he didn’t know what he wanted to do at home, didn’t want to finish college and face all that open, dead space. Kris was  _that guy_ , the one who got into a car with his brother and his friend and drove to Louisville because he thought there might be something there waiting for him, something that mattered. People always acted like Adam was the crazy one, tripping out at Burning Man and talking about visions of self-fulfillment, but Kris wasn’t any better. They were both running on some kind of dynamic combination of blind hope and deluded optimism.  
  
 _I always had a plan_ , Adam said.  _But the weird thing is? None of this was part of it._  
  
Kris wasn’t sure what Adam meant, if he meant still wearing glitter eyeshadow at 30, or sitting in the back of cabs with Southern former youth ministers, or being married to a restaurant designer from Tallahassee who matched their dishware to their kitchen tiles.   
  
 _You’ll figure it out_ , Kris said.  
  
Adam looked up at him, mouth thin like wire.   
  
 _Yeah_ , Adam said.  _I know._  
  
*  
  
Kris sleeps badly – he tosses and turns, drowsy from wine, antsy from nerves. He keeps seeing Adam’s face in his mind, keeps hearing him say,  _Oh, God_. He wishes he could have found the right words, could have said,  _This isn’t wrong, you didn’t do anything wrong._  
  
He wakes up in the guest room with the sheets tangled around his ankles, sun streaming in through the half-open curtains he forgot to close. It’s early, but he was up late, and he’s got a red wine headache just behind his temples, low-intensity and frustrating. He can hear Quentin in the kitchen, puttering around, and the sharp, nutty scent of coffee fills the air.   
  
It’s like any other morning he’s woken up in Adam’s house, feeling the party from the night before, head muddled and skin itchy and mouth dry. There are huge velvet pillows on the floor for people to lounge on and a sculpture of Poseidon in the corner, all hard muscle and triton and narrowed eyes. The walls are inscribed with phrases guests have left there, quotes and thank yous:  _you know we love you Q &A, xoxo_ and  _no more falsehoods or derisions golden living dreams of visions_  and  _If I turned around every time somebody called me a faggot, I'd be walking backward - and I don't want to walk backward_. There’s a black Sharpie taped to the wall under a small whiteboard inscribed with the words:  _LEAVE YOUR MARK._  
  
Kris has stayed in this room maybe five or six times since Adam bought this house. There are other guest rooms, but this is Kris’ favorite, and whenever he comes to stay this is where Adam dumps his stuff, saying,  _Clean sheets on the bed, towels in the bathroom, you know the deal._  He just does it; Kris never has to ask.  
  
He’s never written on the walls. Maybe it’s leftover from many years of parental discipline and teacher lectures – it feels wrong. But today he picks up the marker and writes in tiny letters next to the nightstand:  _take a sad song and make it better._  
  
He wonders how often Adam and Quentin read these, if they even realize the marks they leave on those who leave marks on their walls.  
  
*  
  
Adam doesn’t appear until early afternoon, bleary-eyed and pale and shaky. Quentin helps him settle into a chair on the deck, adjusts the umbrella to keep him shaded from the sun, and leaves him a turkey sandwich and a Coke.  
  
“I’ll be back in a bit,” Quentin says, and kisses Adam on the cheek.   
  
Kris crosses his ankles and stares out at the pool, watching the light glint off the ironed-smooth surface of the water. Adam’s silent behind his dark sunglasses, cradling his broken arm with his good one.   
  
“This is going to be such a boring visit for you,” Adam says. “Sucks.”  
  
“It’s not boring,” Kris says, and it’s the truth – it’s been anything but boring. In some ways it’s been a bit too exciting.  
  
“You don’t have to be so nice about this, you know,” Adam says. “Seriously, this is a fucking shitty situation.”  
  
“I’m glad to be here,” Kris says. “I want to be here. You don’t need to worry about me.”  
  
Adam takes a sip of his Coke, then takes off his sunglasses, rubbing at his eyes. His movements all seem to be in slow motion, as if he’s moving through water.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he says.  
  
“For what?” Kris asks.  
  
“I’m not easily embarrassed,” Adam says, staring out at the pool, anywhere but Kris. “I think you know that.”  
  
Kris conjures up images of Adam in drag, Adam explaining complicated sexual positions, Adam listening intently as Kris stuttered his way through a late-night confession about being a newlywed. Adam is not easily embarrassed. This is definitely the truth, one about as obvious as the fact that Adam can, y’know, kind of sing.  
  
“I’m embarrased about last night,” Adam says. “That shouldn’t have happened.”  
  
Kris rubs his thumb and forefinger together, feeling the rough calluses there, dry and prickly, built up against the assault of guitar strings. Sometimes he plays piano and his fingers react to the smooth surface of the keys in surprise, like they can’t quite believe their luck.  
  
“I don’t know,” Kris says.  
  
Adam looks up at him, eyes wide and Crayola blue, primary, essential, basic blue.   
  
“What?” he says.  
  
“I don’t know,” Kris says. “I don’t know if it shouldn’t have happened.”  
  
“It shouldn’t have happened,” Adam repeats. “It shouldn’t have happened because I love my husband, and because you love your wife, and— “  
  
“But I’m not sorry,” Kris says. “Because I love  _you_. Maybe it wasn’t the best way to show that, but it was the best way in that moment.”  
  
Adam seems to be grasping for words. He takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes, and Kris can see the circles that shade his cheeks, tiredness or faded bruises.  
  
“I can deal with a lot of things,” Adam murmurs. “But please don’t be a fucking tease, Kris. I can’t deal with that.”  
  
Kris feels like he’s walking a tightrope many feet above ground with no net. He doesn’t know how to say what he feels, how to untangle this tangled ball of emotions made up of threads of admiration and affection and confusion and love.   
  
He wants to say:  _You always say sexuality is complicated. You are the reason I understand what you mean when you say that._  
  
He wants to say,  _I could have kissed you longer and harder and still not have been sorry._  
  
He wants to say,  _You think I’m perfect, but I’m not. This is why I’m not perfect – because I will never tell you any of these things._  
  
“I don’t mean to be…” Kris says, but the words fade with his confidence.  
  
Adam can’t meet his eyes.   
  
*  
  
After Michael Jackson theme night, Kris had been a bit of a mess, tired and frustrated and angry. He’d wanted to do better by Michael. He’d wanted to be amazing, but he’d just been average, and the judges had told him so. Adam, on the other hand, had been incredible – so alive and angry and on fire up there on stage, mesmerizing even as he fudged a few notes. Everyone knew Adam was truly het up, because Adam didn’t  _do_  imperfection.  
  
In their room that night they were both quiet, thoughtful. The judges had fawned all over Adam, practically crowned him the winner with ten weeks left in the competition, but Adam didn’t seem all that happy about it. Instead he sat very still on his bed with his hands folded in his lap and stared and stared and stared.  
  
 _Are you okay?_  Kris asked, finally, when he came back from brushing his teeth and Adam was crouched in that same position, frozen.  
  
Adam’s whole body jerked. He looked up at Kris and blinked, slowly, mascara-heavy lashes soft on his cheeks.  
  
 _I don’t know_ , he said.  
  
 _You want to talk about it?_  Kris said.  
  
 _I keep thinking_ , Adam said, and it was as if he was in the middle of a conversation, continuing some dialogue he’d been having with himself in his head.  _I could be the best in this competition, I could work my ass off and push myself until I crack, and none of it will matter because of some stupid fucking pictures I took when I was 25 years old._  
  
Kris didn’t know what to say. He flexed his fingers, then placed them on his thigh.  
  
 _And the part that kills me is that it’s all part of my music_ , Adam said.  _The – heat, whatever you want to call it. Who I am, sexually. It’s all part of me when I sing. It’s a huge part of me. But God forbid people have to see what that means, because the way I love people is so ugly to them._  
  
Kris’ chest hurt, growing tighter with each breath. He lowered his eyes, focused them on the floor.  
  
 _I don’t think it’s ugly,_  Kris said.  
  
When Kris looked up Adam was looking at him too, a tiny smile curving his lips.  
  
 _Well_ , Adam said.  _That’s something._  
  
*  
  
That night Kris can’t sleep, so he gets up and wanders out onto the patio. It smells like chlorine and fruity-scented candles and coconut. Kris inhales and watches Adam, sitting by the pool, one leg dipped in the water. His spine is curved like a sound wave. He’s humming, singing a lyric from time to time, snatches of melody.  
  
Kris moves closer, settling down on the edge of the pool with plenty of room for Adam to sprawl the way he always does.  
  
“MJ,” Kris murmurs.  
  
Adam makes a small affirmative noise, twisting his hand in his hair.  
  
“You know, I never really liked Michael Jackson until I met you,” Adam says. “I mean – I liked him, I dug his music, but I never really got it until I heard you talk about him, how he’d changed your life.”  
  
“You think he could’ve won  _American Idol_?” Kris asks.  
  
“Depends on what phase,” Adam says. “After the third nose job? Maybe not. And Simon probably wouldn’t have liked his outfits.”  
  
“Self-indulgent,” Kris says.  
  
“Over-the-top,” Adam adds.  
  
“Theatrical,” they both say in unison, and then they begin to laugh.  
  
“What the hell kind of insult is theatrical, anyway?” Kris asks. “Like the greatest performers in history haven’t been dramatic? Bowie? Prince? Mick Jagger? Jim Morrison?”  
  
“It’s because theatrical doesn’t mean dramatic,” Adam says. “It means, ‘watch out, Adam, your fag is showing.’”  
  
Kris traces the cement under his foot with his fingers.   
  
“Being boring is worse that being theatrical,” Kris says. “Always.”  
  
“You were never boring,” Adam says. “ _Never_. You were  _good_. You are good. You don’t have to be theatrical to keep people’s attention.”  
  
Kris chews on his lower lip. He brushes his fingers through the water, skimming the surface, making tiny ripples.  
  
“My last album didn’t sell that many copies,” Kris says. “I think people are bored.”  
  
“Your last album sold a lot of copies,” Adam says. “Fuck that. The reviews were good. You can’t expect to always be on top. People are fickle. But they’ll come back.”  
  
“People never left you,” Kris says.  
  
Adam blinks, jaw tight.   
  
“People have left me,” he murmurs.  
  
The silence feels brutal.   
  
Kris sings softly:  _I’m startin’ with the man in the mirror…_  
  
“Take me somewhere?” Adam says suddenly, and it takes Kris a moment to process he means right here, right now, not sometime, not later, not in some distant ever.  
  
*  
  
Kris has no idea where they are, only that Adam’s twisting turning directions have led them to this beach, small and pristine and private, unlike anything Kris has ever seen in L.A. Most beaches here seem crowded and overwhelmed with development, extensions of parking lots that practically seep over into the sand.  
  
This one is different. It is tiny and the houses feel distant, even if they aren’t. The water shimmers and shakes, and dawn presses at the seams of the horizon.  
  
“Help a brother out,” Adam says, and Kris snaps back to the present, where Adam’s struggling to get out of the car.  
  
Kris slides his arm around Adam’s waist and supports him as he recovers his balance. He smells like cinnamon and the plastic of bandages and braces.  
  
They settle on the hood of the Corvette, and Kris keeps his hand at the small of Adam’s back, even as Adam shifts.  
  
“Thank you,” Adam says. “For driving me here.”  
  
“You never have to thank me for driving your car,” Kris says, and Adam cracks a weak smile.  
  
With the broken arm Adam can’t paint his nails, so he doesn’t have the polish to pick off, either. He flexes his fingers instead, like he’s getting ready for a fist fight.  
  
“This is where I proposed to Quentin,” Adam says.  
  
Kris’ hand twitches against Adam’s back. He takes in a deep breath.  
  
“You didn’t know that,” Adam says. “That I proposed.”  
  
“No,” Kris says.  
  
“Best day of my life,” Adam says. “Really. Everything seemed like…it got so much simpler that day.”  
  
“Because marriage simplifies everything?” Kris says.  
  
“Yeah, well,” Adam says. “I wasn’t married yet.”  
  
“It’s weird how sometimes things get better because doors open,” Kris says. “And other times they get better because doors close.”  
  
“Getting married is kind of like both at once, isn’t it?” Adam says. “A Vaudeville routine as rite of passage.”  
  
Kris hums his agreement. A breeze lifts the fabric of Adam’s shirt.  
  
“You said once when we were at the mansion that you have no regrets,” Kris says.   
  
Adam looks at Kris, eyes soft.  
  
“Are you asking me if that’s still true?” Adam says.  
  
Kris nods.  
  
“Well, I can tell you one thing,” Adam says. “I sure regret getting in my car four days ago.”  
  
It’s not the answer Kris was looking for, or the answer he thought he’d get. But he knows Adam well enough to know it’s the only one he will.  
  
“Sun’s coming up,” Kris says.  
  
Adam tilts his head to one side. He’s almost smiling.  
  
“Yeah,” Adam says. “Looks like it.” 


End file.
